


Like air

by Saetha



Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [28]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FebuWhump2021, Ghost CPR, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt Lambert (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Lambert does NOT DIE at the end of this, M/M, Moving On, Soft Lambert (The Witcher), Torture, and a sort of happy ending, no beta we die like Aiden :/, soft things, the major character death refers to Aiden, trust me this thing is angst galore but also lots of soft stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29757696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: Aiden lets out a breath and buries his face in his hands.“This isn’t happening,” he murmurs. “I’m not sitting here, next to my lover who doesn’t even know I’m dead yet, talking with his equally dead ex-lover about our sex life. It isn’t happening.”“I am afraid it is.” Coën makes a sympathetic noise, although there’s clearly a chuckle caught in his throat. “You’ll get used to it, eventually.”*After his death, Aiden wakes up in the presence of an, at first, unfamiliar Griffin Witcher. Together, he and Coën try and look after Lambert, to make sure he survives and finds his way.
Relationships: Aiden/Coën/Lambert (The Witcher), Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Coën/Lambert (The Witcher)
Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178
Comments: 16
Kudos: 34
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Like air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CamilleDuDemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/gifts).



> This one's for the wonderful [Camille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon), my number one muse in the Witcher fandom, partner in crime and sharer of The One Braincell (TM) when it comes to whump. Thank you for being the awesome person that you are ❤.
> 
> I’m usually really nice when I’m gaming. Like, if I get the choice, I usually choose to let people live and all that. Jad Karadin and his cronies? I was on the sidelines cheering Lambert on to murder them all lmao. Lambert is hurting SO MUCH during that mission and it kills me every time. :(
> 
> Re: timeline – we’re fudging timelines again here, work with me. Coën died in 1268 and Aiden probably somewhere around 1272 (given that that’s the year where Witcher 3 takes place). Let’s just pretend that some more time has passed to give Lambert a bit more time with his Cat – and also, to have had Aiden with them in Kaer Morhen from time to time, so Geralt definitely knows him.
> 
> There’s a brief bit of torture about halfway through (the bits that are set in Poviss) – feel free to skip it if you want. It was written as a special treat for Camille and her love for all heart-related whump (please don’t nail me down on the medical accuracy of this…). Also, I am taking so many liberties with the properties of that magic lamp Keira lets Geralt keep in Witcher 3 haha.
> 
> Today's prompt was: "You have to let me go."

“Fuck.“

Aiden wakes up panting, hand still pressed to his eye where he had tried in vain to staunch the bleeding. He remembers the feeling of dying, of the pain from the various wounds on his body slowly being eclipsed by that in his head, of the panic when he tried to breathe and tasted nothing but blood. Every Witcher knows that death is rarely pretty, but as this one goes, it was definitely on the uglier side. No soft slipping across the border, in the arms of someone he loves. No hands to hold his, no comfort. Just cold grass below his back, an arrow in his eye, and a traitor’s name in his mouth.

He just hopes Lambert won’t find his corpse.

 _Lambert…_ Aiden can’t help but make a wounded noise in his throat. His prickly Wolf, so quick to anger, so difficult to soothe. So loyal, too, so capable of an immeasurable amount of love, hidden away deeply inside his chest where he thinks nobody can see it. Aiden doesn’t want to think about what this is going to do to him.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Aiden jerks up, so quickly that he feels the blood rush from his head. And that in itself is as strange a situation as any – shouldn’t he be dead? Why does he still have to deal with such minor inconveniences like headrush when he’s supposedly arrived in some sort of afterlife?

“Hey, hey, take it slow.” There is a hand on his back, steadying him. Aiden turns his head to look into a face he doesn’t recognise. Skin the colour of bronze, lighter than his own, but with a few pox scars, soft brown curls and gentle golden eyes that look just slightly sorrowful. Aiden’s gaze wanders down and is immediately drawn to the medallion around the man’s neck, in the shape of a griffin’s head. He frowns.

“You are-“

“Coën.” The Witcher holds out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Or, well, perhaps not really. I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen for a while.”

“I’m dead,” Aiden says, somewhat lamely.

“Regrettably so, yes.” The sorrow in Coën’s gaze identifies and it is then that the name finally clicks into place in Aiden’s head.

“Oh, gods.” He falls back into the grass. “You are _Coën_.”

Coën smiles.

“This…is really awkward.” Aiden sits up again. Despite the feeling of fresh grass and wet earth under his fingertips, his hands are clean. He wipes them on his pants anyway, just on principle, and takes Coën’s offered hand. His grip is warm and firm, but it still feels like there’s something missing there, something substantial, that Aiden can’t quite put his finger on.

“A little, I guess.” Coën shrugs, but he seems rather unfazed. Decades of being dead will do that to you, Aiden supposes. “But I’ve known you for years now. And I _do_ believe Lambert talked about me.”

“Even _more_ awkward.” Aiden expels a breath. “But, if you’ve been around for years, perhaps you can answer one of my most burning questions right now – _what the fuck is going on_?”

“We’re both dead, as you’ve so neatly realised already.” Coën makes a sweeping motion, indicating the landscape around them, and it’s only now that Aiden realises that he isn’t where he died. Instead, they’re on a patch of grass in a clearing that he doesn’t recognise. There’s a little fire burning nearby, a horse grazing next to it and, sat down on a log, a couple of nekker trophies next to him and cleaning his swords-

“Lamb,” Aiden breathes out. For a moment, he forgets Coën’s presence, gets up and stumbles towards his Wolf. Lambert doesn’t look up at his approach, however, remaining engrossed in his task. Aiden wants to kiss him, wants to feel his arms holding him like he always does, squeezing just tightly enough to make it harder to breathe. But his fingers go through Lambert’s form as if he isn’t there and he stumbles back with a little cry on his lips.

He’s _dead_. Well and truly dead, and for a moment the unfairness of it all takes his breath away.

“Easy there.” Coën is next to him again, holding him up. “It’s harsh during those first moments, I know.”

“He’s- he’s-“ Aiden tries to focus his thoughts, but nothing sensible seems to come across his lips.

“He doesn’t know yet,” Coën confirms, and the sorrowful love in his eyes when he looks at Lambert is a mirror of Aiden’s own. Aiden swallows. He wants so desperately to touch Lambert, to shield him against the pain that he knows will come, but there is nothing he can do. Something else clicks into place in his head then and he draws his legs up to his chest as he sits down and looks at Lambert.

“You’ve been with him since you died?” he asks and Coën nods.

“Found myself gasping for breath, thinking I was still trying to survive having been stabbed through the heart, with Lambert nearby in some forest or another. Took me a while to understand that I wasn’t really…there anymore and that he couldn’t see me anymore. Was scared I’d turn into a wraith for a while, but I guess we’re just normal ghosts.” He shrugs. “Been watching over him ever since. Tried to see how far away from him I could get, return to Kaer Seren, to see my brothers. Made it no more than a hundred steps before I lost consciousness and woke up next to him again.”

“So, you’ve seen everything he’s done since then,” Aiden asks. _Everything_. That means…suddenly he’s quite glad that Witchers can’t blush, which seems to hold as true for dead Witchers as it does for living ones.

“Everything,” Coën’s confirms, his eyes glittering with amusement. “I’ve always heard that Cats were unreasonably flexible, but I must say, I was thoroughly impressed at times. I’m sure Lambert appreciated it.”

Aiden lets out a breath and buries his face in his hand.

“This isn’t happening,” he murmurs. “I’m not sitting here, next to my lover who doesn’t even know I’m dead yet, talking with his equally dead ex-lover about our sex life. _It isn’t happening_.”

“I am afraid it is.” Coën makes a sympathetic noise, although there’s clearly a chuckle caught in his throat. “You’ll get used to it, eventually.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Aiden says, knowing that he is sounding rather childish.

“Hey. At least it isn’t just you,” Coën shrugs. “As much as I hate seeing you here, it’s nice to have some company for a change.”

It must have been horrible, Aiden realises. To be so close to the one you love, see him moving on, and yet never allowed to touch or to feel or to talk. For _decades_.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m not- I hope you didn’t mind? Me and Lambert, I mean?”

“I didn’t.” A smile travels over Coën’s face. “I mean, at the beginning I did. I was quite jealous, in fact. But you made him so happy. I don’t think you knew just how happy. I couldn’t be angry at that for very long.”

Aiden nods – which is when another thought occurs to him. He tugs at Coën’s shirt sleeve and is relieved to find that his first impression was right – he, at least, seems solid enough. Not quite as solid as he remembers another human being, but real enough to touch at least. Coën looks at him and Aiden just opens his arms.

“Hug me?” he asks. Coën hesitates for a moment, before Aiden can see the barriers in his eyes breaking. He moves in and Aiden closes his arms around him – awkwardly at first, until they have found a position that works for both of them. Coën simply melts in his arms, burying his face in the crook of Aiden’s neck, his entire form shuddering.

“Must’ve been hard, so long without being touched,” Aiden says, and Coën just nods. “You can ask me for a hug whenever you want, you know.”

“Thank you,” Coën’s voice is muffled against the fabric (or not-fabric? Ghost-fabric? It gets more confusing the longer Aiden thinks about it) of Aiden’s shirt, and Aiden pats his back, trying to make soothing little noises. They stay like this for a while longer, Aiden looking at Lambert past Coën’s shoulder, wishing desperately that he could see them now.

*

Lambert finds out two weeks later.

Coën and Aiden have been following him around for days in his increasingly frantic attempts to trace Aiden’s footsteps after he didn’t appear at their latest meeting place. The closer he moves to the clearing where Aiden still so vividly remembers dying, the more nervous and fidgety Aiden gets. Coën is a steady and quiet weight at his side although he, too, becomes more sorrowful by the hour.

Lambert picks up some rumours about an ambush on a road not far from a nearby village and goes to visit the site. As soon as he approaches the clearing, Aiden’s body becomes as taut as a bowstring, his eye twinging with remembered pain. He digs his fingers into Coën’s arm and Coën lets him, bumps their shoulders together. _You can only get killed once_ , he reminds himself. It doesn’t really change the fact that watching Lambert discover the truth makes it feel lie he is dying all over again.

Except, his body isn’t there. None of his remains are, just flecks of dried blood that Lambert looks at and sniffs, his entire face going hard at the sight. If Lambert closes his eyes, he can still see Jad Karadin standing in the exact spot that Lambert is in now, smiling down at him as he was choking out his last breath with eyes hard like shards of ice.

Lambert’s movements are wooden and stiff when he walks back to the village to find the alderman. Except, it’s nothing against the way his body almost seems to fall in on itself when, after a few words, the alderman hands him a medallion on a chain, shaped like a snarling cat.

“We were waiting for another Witcher to come by. Don’t know much about ye Witcher customs, sir, but thought you lot might want to have it,” the alderman says. Lambert’s fingers are trembling when he takes the medallion and grips it so tightly that his knuckles are standing out stark and white.

“What did you do with the body?” His voice is toneless, like it’s coming from an empty vessel rather than a human being. He looks so different from the man that Aiden has known all this time that he is barely recognisable. The alderman notices his mood and begins to look nervous, taking a step back.

“Meaning no offense, Witcher, sir, but we burned it. Have no cold house to preserve it and didn’t want to leave it a feast for the necrophages and wild animals.” His hands are trembling rather obviously now. Lambert just stares at him for a moment longer before he nods and steps away, evidently not trusting himself to speak.

He makes it all the way out of the village and into the forest, far away from anyone who might hear him before he breaks.

Aiden buries his face in Coën’s chest, his arms wrapped around him, when Lambert won’t stop screaming. He beats his fists bloody on the bark of the nearest tree, flings rock and pieces of wood around, almost dulls his swords by thrashing trees and branches with them. And still, he doesn’t stop screaming. Aiden doesn’t know how long it takes for him to exhaust himself, but it is entirely too long. When the screams finally stop, he looks up to find traces of tears on Coën’s face, but Lambert’s are still dry, the loss far too monumental to truly be processed yet. Lambert is slumped against the trunk of a tree, and Aiden wants nothing more than to reach out and take him into his arms, but once again his fingers move through him like air.

He makes a strangled noise, helpless in the face of the enormity of Lambert’s grief. Lambert is so alone, with no one there to help him through. Coën catches him in his arms again, looking like he, too, would rather press hot irons on his chest than see Lambert like this (again, Aiden reminds himself. He must have seen him like this before, when _he_ had died. An echo of that grief had still been around Lambert when he had first met him, was always going to be a part of his soul. Aiden had accepted it, glad that Lambert had found it in him to love again).

The next few days don’t get any easier. Lambert is, frankly spoken, a mess. Barely held together at the seams, flickering from one mood to another as quick as a thought, but all of them black. He throws himself into the task of trying to find Aiden’s murderers with an almost religious zeal that Aiden understands – it’s always easier to find something to pursue, to put your mind to than trying to face reality at its fullest and worst.

This newly found relentlessness has its price, of course – it takes less than a week for Lambert to piss off a sizeable number of people, none of which are the types that you _should_ piss off, not even if you’re a Witcher. Not that Lambert cares; he is clearly itching for a fight, and it comes as it must. There is a fierce light burning in Lambert’s eyes, but it isn’t the steady warmth that Aiden is used to. It’s too hot and bright, the kind of fire that burns quickly and leaves nothing behind but ash.

The group of men surround him and attack in a rhythm – two of them at once, striking from different sides and retreating quickly again out of reach of his blade. Lambert evades them at first, blocking the slashes with _Quen_ and his own blade, but eventually, even a Witcher tires. He knows it and tries to prevent it the one way he’s always tried to solve most of his problems: by running headfirst into them and trying to break through. Two men aren’t quick enough to jump aside from the quickly tossed bomb. Another two fall under his blade, and then a third one, but the fourth manages to parry two of his inhumanely fast slashes, giving a fifth one time to close in on him. They almost have him dead to rights, but Lambert manages to hold them off somehow. Except – there’s a sixth one, and that one is cleverer than the others, pulling a small throwing knife out of his belt, aiming it at Lambert’s back.

“No!” Aiden yells out when the man lets the knife go. He throws himself into its path, as if his presence could do anything and-

The knife flies past Lambert’s ear and embeds itself neatly in a tree trunk instead of his head. Lambert uses the momentary confusion and makes short work of his remaining opponents. He stands there, breathing heavily and bleeding from several wounds, but definitely _alive_. Aiden lets out a sigh of relief.

“What did you just do?” Coën stares at him, open-mouthed. 

“Uh. I. Nothing? I think?” Aiden feels confusion welling up inside him.

“That knife should’ve killed him.” Coën is still staring. “But somehow, you touched it and it… _didn’t_.”

Aiden jumps up at those words, tries to touch Lambert, touch the throwing knife, but it is the same as always – his fingers pass through his lover and the metal both.

“I have no idea,” Aiden says, panting. He feels like he just ran for miles, his fingers trembling. Coën walks up to him and takes them into his hands, frowning.

“Well, whatever you did, you just saved his life,” he says, awe in his voice. “Good job, Cat.”

“Wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t pointed it out,” Aiden says. “Perhaps you’ve done the same for him, too, without knowing.” Coën looks pensive at that, forehead creased in a frown. He seems to be remembering something but doesn’t mention it and Aiden nods. They both turn around when they hear a soft groan, just in time to see Lambert hap-hazardly wrapping up a wound on his arm.

“He isn’t going to get this looked after, is he,” Aiden says quietly. His fingers itch to soothe Lambert’s pain, to help him stitch the wound shut and hold him when Swallow makes him drop off into sleep.

“No,” Coën says, shaking his head. “He was the same after I died. Barely survived two bouts of infection. Would’ve died, probably, if Eskel hadn’t found him that one time. It was…hard to watch.” His eyes are filled with deep sorrow.

“Fuck.” Aiden hugs himself, tries to ignore the anxiety and anger roiling in his gut. Anger at Jad Karadin, at fate, at the world as a whole. At himself, too, for dying so easily.

“Hey.” Coën steps in front of him, hands raised as if he wants to touch him but isn’t quite sure whether he’s allowed to. He seems to remember their conversation from weeks ago. “Hug?”

Aiden doesn’t reply, just wrapping his arms around Coën instead. Coën hugs him back and holds him when Aiden begins to scream against his chest in helpless frustration.

*

It turns out that Lambert isn’t quite as alone as he thinks. Both Aiden and Coën heave a sigh of relief when Geralt suddenly runs into him during his search and agrees to help his brother. Geralt seems surprised at Lambert’s rage at first, until he realises what is happening. He doesn’t quite know how to comfort Lambert, but his presence alone is some measure of comfort already. He even takes care of Lambert’s wounds, helps him stave off the beginning infection.

Aiden and Coën watch as Lambert finally catches his first full night of sleep in weeks that night, the wounds of his heart soothed enough by his brother’s presence that he allows himself this modicum of comfort.

“Do you think he’ll find peace again?” Lambert asks, hunched down next to Lambert’s still form and fingers outstretched as if to run them over his cheek.

“Difficult to say.” Coën hunkers down next to him, so close that their shoulders are touching. “I hope he will. He’s managed it once before. Perhaps he can do so again. He’s got his family still, at least.”

“Yeah.” Aiden looks over at Geralt who is watching over his brother’s sleep, eyes trained on the fire as he’s sharpening his swords with slow, even movements. “They’re a good bunch, aren’t they.”

“They try their best,” Coën smiles. “I hope he’ll go home to Kaer Morhen after this.”

Kaer Morhen. Funny how the old keep had felt like home to Aiden after only a few weeks within its crumbing walls. They are laden with sadness, true, with the memories of greater times and the souls that have perished there. But somehow, Vesemir and the other Wolves had managed to make it feel warm, fill it with laughter and peace despite its cruel history and the pain they had suffered there.

“Yeah. I’d like to see it again,” Aiden admits.

Lambert looks a little less bleary-eyed when he wakes up the next morning, although his ferocity still hasn’t been dimmed. Aiden and Coën watch as he slaughters his way through Jad Karadin’s companions. Aiden can’t say that he feels too bad about their deaths. He remembers their unmoving faces only all too well. He’s dead, after all; he can allow himself a little bit of selfish satisfaction that they won’t harm anyone else ever again, although he doesn’t take outright delight in their demise.

Karadin, though…he can feel his lips peel back in a snarl at the sight of the man alone. A slave trader. An assassin who sold his services to the highest bidder. He doesn’t believe for a moment that he has left this life behind him, is content with his wife and children now. Aiden is living (well, no, dead) proof of the fact.

“Kill him, Lambert,” he hisses, hands balled into fists. Coën raises an eyebrow at him but Aiden gestures at him. _Later_. His fury rises to unknown heights when he hears the lies that Karadin is trying to spread about him.

“Don’t you believe him,” he says, even though he knows neither Geralt nor Lambert can hear him. “Don’t you dare believe him. Make him _pay_.”

The fury in Lambert’s eyes rivals his own and he cannot help the grief that pulls at his heart when Lambert denounces Karadin a liar. Geralt stands back and leaves the task to Lambert. For just a moment, Aiden is afraid for Lambert. Karadin is a Witcher, after all, and one of the best the Cat School ever produced. Except – a retired Cat with only a few weapons is, apparently, no match for the rage of a Wolf at the height of his abilities.

Aiden can see Geralt on the sidelines, sword in hand, and _Aard_ ready at his fingertips should his help be needed, but it isn’t.

Lambert’s chest is heaving when Karadin is dead, and he kicks his corpse for good measure, rams his sword through his heart again to make sure he’s really dead. Aiden looks down at Karadin’s still form and feels…a strange rush of emotions. A stab of vicious satisfaction at the fact that Karadin will never be the cause for anyone’s pain again. Grief at the agony that Lambert is still in, now left to run wild without any direction and so likely turning in and against himself. Emptiness at the fact that there’s yet another death, one of so many that has marked his life as a Witcher.

“He’s dead.” Geralt puts his hand on Lambert’s shoulder from behind, at the same moment that Coën puts his hand on Aiden’s. Lambert looks like he is going to snarl and push away Geralt’s hand, but he stops himself at the last moment.

“Yeah,” he spits. “And good riddance.”

“What are you going to do now?” Geralt asks, voice still soft. He takes his hand from Lambert’s shoulder as Lambert turns around to face him.

“Don’t know. Hunt more monsters, I guess.” Lambert’s face is hard, unreadable.

“But you’ll come back to the keep this winter?” Geralt isn’t so easily fooled.

“I don’t know. Will you?” Lambert snaps back, making Aiden wince a little. He knows this mood of Lambert’s; nothing that Geralt can say will be interpreted in a positive light now.

“I’m planning to, yes.” Geralt shrugs, entirely unfazed. He, at least, is as used to Lambert’s black moods as Aiden is. “Eskel will be there for sure. You should come. We’re all missing you.”

“Perhaps.” It’s as much of an affirmation as Lambert is capable of giving right now, and Geralt recognises it. Geralt seems to sense that the offer of camping together again that night would be an unwelcome one and they part ways shortly after they have left Karadin’s house.

Lambert spends that night wide awake, staring at Aiden’s medallion in his hands. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t move much, but there is a storm of emotions flickering over his face that Aiden wishes he could soothe. Coën sits down next to Lambert, so close that their knees are almost touching, and meditates for the rest of the night, his face a grimace of grief still. At some point, Aiden leans against him, and he reaches out almost automatically put an arm around Aiden’s shoulders, despite Aiden being the taller one.

*

Lambert keeps moving through life as if he is stuck underwater. He goes through the motions convincingly enough – speaks to aldermen to receive contracts, fights, delivers the trophies and collects his rewards, bearing praise and scorn with equal stoicism. But there is no true fire behind his eyes, no passion, no _life_. Nothing of what made Lambert _Lambert_ , the man that Aiden fell head over heels in love with within days of meeting him. It aches worse than Aiden’s own death hurt, worse even than those desperate moments when Lambert found out about it. The man in front of him is closer to the stereotype of an emotionless Witcher than he has ever been, and it’s _terrifying_ , because there is nothing they can do about it.

Lambert avoids all the regions where he and Aiden used to hunt together, any sight that could trigger memories. Instead, he moves to the northwest, towards Kovir and Poviss. Coën gets antsier the closer they get, and although Lambert never comes within the vicinity of Kaer Seren, the landscape seems to be filled with memories for the Griffin. He entertains Aiden with stories in the evenings, of the contracts he has taken in the area, journeys he made when he was young and training with the other boys of his year. He doesn’t speak much about the end of his School, but then, Aiden doesn’t need to hear it – he knows the tales only all too well, knows how, in the end, they are usually all brought down by the fear, anger and greed of humans and sorcerers.

Unfortunately, the demise of the Griffin School and the disappearance of its Witchers means that others have established their territories here, especially close to the mountains where human habitants are sparse. Some are bandits, although Lambert deals with them easily enough, for the most part. The sorcerers, on the other hand, Lambert avoids as well as he can.

Not quite well enough, however.

The mage he finally runs into seems to be of the particularly nasty type, outwardly a friendly old man, although he soon reveals himself to be anything but.

The panic is clear in Coën’s eyes when he looks down at Lambert, who is curled up on the floor, tremors running through his body. He is wearing nothing but his pants and his hands and feet are bound with rope – simple enough to burn with _Igni_ , but nothing could be further from Lambert at the moment. His eyes are screwed shut and is chest is heaving as he is gasping for breath. He’s survived the poisons and potions he’s been plied with, but is far from fighting shape.

“It has been a while since I’ve seen a Witcher in these parts,” the mage muses. He has seated himself on a chair not far from Lambert, seemingly unfazed by the suffering of the man in front of him. “What a lucky day for me. I thought I would never get to continue my experiments.”

He makes a small gesture and Lambert jerks, his limbs twitching as his heart begins to beat far faster than it should be able to. Aiden can hear its frantic galloping, can only imagine how painful it must be. Lambert whimpers, hands blindly scrabbling at the floor. This tempo is fast enough to be painful for a human. For a Witcher…Aiden snarls with rage, tries again to hurt the mage somehow, all in vain. The man doesn’t know they’re here. He just watches Lambert for a while, murmurs to himself and scribbles a few notes into his notebook. With another motion of his hand he releases the spell and Lambert’s heartbeat returns to normal.

Lambert is shaking all over and curls up even more tightly.

“No, no, Lamb, c’mon,” Aiden begs. “Don’t give up. You need to fight. Use _Igni_. Get up, get up.” Of course, Lambert cannot hear him. And before he has a chance to move, the mage mumbles a few more words and moves his hand again. This time, Lambert’s heart begins stuttering, no apparent rhythm to its frantic beat and, if anything, the effect is almost worse than before – Aiden can see Lambert trying to strain against it, try and catch his breath and force his body to cooperate, but one moment his blood stops flowing, and the next his heart picks up the pace again, hammering loudly.

“Interesting, interesting.” The mage makes a few more notes in his notebook. “Now…let’s see how slowly we can go. A Witcher’s heart truly is a remarkable thing, wouldn’t you say?” He evidently doesn’t expect an answer.

Lambert opens his eyes, pupils dilated from the pain.

“Fuck you,” he grinds out between his teeth. “Unbind me and I’ll show you all sorts of remarkable things we’re capable of.”

Aiden lets out a little laugh that almost sounds like a sob. Coën just shakes his head, sighing. The mage seems surprised that Lambert still has the capacity to speak and hastily scribbles something down. Then he begins casting his spell.

Lambert’s heart slows down little by little at first. In these early moments it actually seems to calm him, the rhythm not unlike the one he usually attains during meditation or deep restful sleep. Then his heart beats more slowly still, its rhythm reminding Aiden of Geralt’s, the slowest he has ever heard. Lambert grits his teeth.

Aiden can see the panic in his eyes when the pauses between each frantic movement of his heart continue to lengthen. It robs him of every bit of strength, and Lambert’s fingers move weakly, trying to hold on to something to keep his body going. He gasps for air, as if forcing extra air into his lungs could somehow make his heart beat again, and each new heartbeat, when it finally comes, is both torment and relief alike. The mage keeps it at a slow rhythm for a while, but he cannot hear what the two ghostly Witcher do – how laborious each new heartbeat is, how much Lambert’s body is straining to keep itself alive. After another set of notes, the old man lengthens the interval again.

Aiden thinks he can see the exact moment when Lambert finally gives up. He closes his eyes, and his head falls forward to rest on the ground, his fingers stilling in their frantic attempts to move.

“No,” he whispers. “No. Lamb, no, don’t give up-”

“’m sorry,” Lambert whispers, as if he has heard him.

The mage cocks his head, disappointment painted on his features before he sighs.

“Nothing for it,” he says. “A pity. I thought you would last longer.” He gathers his things and moves out of the room, stepping past Lambert’s still form. One last heartbeat sounds out, as loud as a drum in Aiden’s ears, before he snips his fingers.

There is no other.

“NO!” Aiden is faintly aware that he’s screaming. Coën’s face is ashen as he drags himself over to Lambert, hands hovering over his body, frantically searching for any sign of life. Of course, Aiden had been aware that they would eventually have to watch Lambert die. That it wouldn’t be a pleasant death, in all likelihood, not for a Witcher, not in these times. But not so quickly. Not like _this_ , on a dirty floor in random hideout, a forgotten and discarded subject of a mage’s cruel experiments.

“No!” he shouts again. “Breathe, dammit! Lambert!” He isn’t thinking when he kneels over him, begins to push down his hands on his chest like he’s once seen a healer do after pulling a drowned man from a pond to get his heart beating again. There’s the resistance of… _something_ and Aiden pushes again, concentrating harder, willing every single ounce of his grief, his rage, his _love_ for this stupid Wolf of his into the act.

There it is again, the faint resistance under his fingers after he pushes through Lambert’s ribs and into his heart. Coën seems baffled, but also picks up on what Aiden is doing and doesn’t waste any time questioning or arguing. He’s seen it too, the way some healers and mages have brought people back to life and so he closes his eyes, places his hands next to Lambert’s face and tries to blow breath into his open mouth.

Aiden can’t tell how long they’re doing this for, are desperately trying to keep a body alive that they shouldn’t even be able to touch. He knows he’s cursing, begging, shouting Lambert’s name whilst simultaneously cussing him out and pleading for him to fight. He is faintly aware that Coën is doing the same when he isn’t trying to breathe for him. Until, all of a sudden, the faintest sound of a heartbeat reaches his ears.

He and Coën stare at each other before they renew their efforts. Lambert’s heart beats again, and this time Aiden is sure he hasn’t imagined it. They only stop when it beats regularly again – weakly, yes, but in a steady rhythm nonetheless.

It takes even longer for Lambert to regain consciousness as his Witcher metabolism slowly kicks back into gear, forces his lungs to breathe on their own and his body to remember what it’s like to be alive.

Aiden falls back to the ground and blindly grasps for Coën’s hands.

“We did it,” he whispers. “I can’t believe we did it. How-“

“I have no idea.” Coën sounds just as incredulous. “And don’t say ‘the power of love’, or I am going to punch you.”

“Ha.” Aiden squeezes his hand and leans into him a little, as they watch Lambert open his eyes and try to sit up with shaky movements, hampered by his still bound hands and feet. For just a single moment, his gaze alights on them and he frowns. He reaches out, a soft sound escaping him and opens his mouth as if to say something, before blinking and shaking his head.

It takes Lambert a while to recover, but once his hands have stopped shaking, a simple Igni is enough to destroy the rope that holds him captive. His gear is leaning against the wall and Lambert doesn’t even bother with putting on any of his clothes. He downs a vial of Swallow, and another of Thunderbolt, shudders when the potions take effect. Aiden winces when he can hear Lambert’s heart skipping a few beats, afraid for a moment that even such a small amount of potions will prove too much for his still recovering system. Lambert grabs his steel sword, fingers curled around its hilt so tightly that his knuckles stand out stark and white.

The mage doesn’t stand a chance.

Lambert is on him like a force of nature before he can gather the energy for even a single spell. He cuts him down without mercy, slashing across his chest and leaping after him when the mage falls to the ground. Lambert buries his sword between his ribs, pinning him to the floor, and leans on his blade, catching the mage’s gaze with his. He bares his teeth and twists his blade when the mage tries to speak.

“A Witcher’s heart truly is a remarkable thing, you know,” he snarls. “Now take that knowledge to your grave with you and die, you cruel old fuck.”

The mage gasps something unintelligible and Lambert rips his blade out of his chest, watching with stony eyes as the man slowly drowns in his own blood.

*

“I heard their voices. For a moment, I thought I could see them.” Lambert swallows and Aiden can see the anxiety in his gaze as he watches Geralt’s expression.

“’Them?’” Geralt repeats, frowning.

“Aiden. And…and Coën.” Lambert looks away, as if he is already regretting his words. It is pure coincidence that has brought him and Geralt back together so close to the last days of summer, a coincidence that Aiden is absurdly grateful for. After his encounter with the mage and his near-death experience, a new set of terrors has been added to Lambert’s nightmares and on the few nights where he manages to drop off into sleep, he usually jerks awake hours later, either shouting Aidan’s name or pressing his hands to his chest, right above his heart.

“Are you sure it was them? Sometimes, when we’re close to death, we…” Geralt’s voice is as gentle as it can be as it peters off. Lambert rounds on him then, fury and hurt mingling in his expression.

“I know what I saw,” he snaps. He deflates almost as quickly, however, when Geralt doesn’t rise to the challenge and remains as calm as before. His temper is a volatile, brittle thing these days, as if he simply doesn’t have the energy to keep it up for too long.

“At least I think I did,” he admits, more quietly. “You’re right, maybe it wasn’t…I don’t know. Not even sure why I told you about this.”

“Hey now. That’s what family is for, right?” Geralt gives him a small smile. Lambert snorts, but there is no heat behind it.

“Anyway,” he says, leaning back against the tree log he is sitting against. “What brings you here?”

“Professional interest, mostly,” Geralt admits. “I heard there were some strange happenings around here, someone told me that I might be able to help. Seems like this entire village is haunted by various types of wraiths and ghosts, more so than any other village. A while back, a sorceress gave me this magic lamp that helps with detecting ghosts, so…”

“A magic lamp that detects ghost.” Lambert’s voice is dry, even as Coën lets out an incredulous snort. “You sure get around, Geralt, don’t you.”

“I do my best.” Geralt shrugs. “Point is, it might actually come in useful here. You want to help? The alderman promised a hefty sum of money, enough to split between us. And I’d be happy for the company, with this many wraiths floating around.”

Lambert looks into their campfire for a moment, evidently wrestling with the question.

“Sure, why not,” he finally says. Aiden and Coën both let out a sigh of relief.

The following evening finds them all in the middle of the village square. There is no trace of its living inhabitants – the people here have seemingly learned quickly that they shouldn’t set foot outside their home as soon as darkness falls. It must be rather boring in winter, Aiden thinks.

Two wraiths accost them shortly after they arrive at the square, but Lambert and Geralt dispatch them quickly enough. Aiden feels himself shudder when the wraiths are close and watches Coën take several steps back to avoid them.

“Can they see us?” he whispers. Coën frowns.

“I think so. Once, when Lambert was on a contract, this wraith materialised behind him, right where I was standing. It went around me and touched me in the process and…” Coën shudders. “Let’s say it wasn’t the nicest feeling in the world. They don’t seem to see us as a threat, though, so I usually just stay out of their way.”

“Hu. Interesting.” Aiden looks around. Something strange is happening, he can feel it. Every time he moves his gaze, he thinks he can see the shapes of people from the corner of his eyes, disappearing as soon as he tries to concentrate on them. “Coën, can you see-“

“Yes,” Coën interrupts him. “They’re all around us. Geralt is right. I’ve never seen this many ghosts in one place. Something weird is going on here…”

Geralt holds up the lamp he’s been carrying, and lights it with a quick word. Its beam illuminates the half of the square in front of the four of them and Aiden gasps, at the same time that Lambert lets out a loud _What the fuck_. Coën was right, the square is littered with ghosts. They do not seem to be malevolent, and certainly not as in possession of their faculties as Aiden and Coën are, but they aren’t entirely senseless spectres either, slowly moving towards the two Witchers. Their empty eyes are more terrifying than any active malevolence would be.

“Fucking hell,” Lambert swears again. “Something must be making these ghosts. Look. They’re all having the same symbols carved on their chests…”

“We need to find the alderman and ask him about it. Fight this at the source. Not much we can do here.” Geralt sounds nervous. “Let’s leave, before we have more wraiths on our tail.” Lambert nods.

They extinguish the lamp and hurry back to their little camp, outside in the woods, checking occasionally that the ghosts haven’t followed them. It is late in the night when they arrive, mood subdued, tossing theories back and forth of what could have awakened all the ghosts and caused them to aggregate in the village.

“Perhaps one of us should keep watch,” Lambert suggests. “Keep the lamp out. Just in case any ghosts are trying to find us.”

“Probably not the worst idea,” Geralt agrees and yawns. “Do you want to take first watch or should I?”

“Go to sleep, old man. You’re practically falling over already.” Lambert punches him softly in the shoulder when Geralt grumbles ‘not much older than _you_ ’ in reply. “Go to sleep,” he repeats. Geralt complies with a sigh, after showing Lambert how to switch the lamp on and off and positioning it so that it lights up the majority of the space in front of them. Soon, Geralt’s soft snores fill the air.

Lambert takes out a bit of mending and begins to work on it, looking up every few moments to see whether there is any sign of ghosts approaching.

“Coën.” Aiden frowns, staring intently at the lamp.

“Hm?” Coën is on the ground, half asleep next to Lambert. In their strange undead state, they don’t really _sleep_ per se, but they can fall into an unconscious rest which helps to pass the time. It also makes them grow strangely translucent, and usually, Aiden tries to ‘sleep’ when Coën does. It is less weird that way.

“The magic lamp,” Aiden continues. “It…it makes ghosts visible, right? And. We’re basically ghosts, aren’t we? Do you think…” His voice trails off, the enormity of the thought overwhelming him. Coën sits up straight, his eyes wide.

“He might be able to see us,” he breathes, and the longing in his eyes is so strong that it’s almost like a physical punch to Aiden’s chest. “Do you want to-“

Aiden swallows.

“We should do it together,” he says, holding out his hand in Coën’s direction. “Come on.” Coën gets up and grasps Aiden’s fingers, his touch familiar and grounding by now, although it will never be filled with the warmth Aiden associates with being alive. They have just taken the first, hesitant step towards the lamp together when Lambert suddenly stands up and takes it in hand, sweeping it around in a wide arc to survey the area behind him. The beam of light hits the two Witchers and for a moment, they all freeze. Then, Lambert’s hand starts shaking.

“Lamb?” Aiden hates how weak and lost his voice sounds.

“That’s. You. You-“ Lambert sits down again, the lamp now rattling audibly in his shaking hand.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers.

“Hi, Lamb.” Aiden’s voice is at least as shaky as the lamp, at least until Lambert sets it down, lest he drop and break it.

“Can you hear us?” Coën asks. He has to start the sentence twice before he can finish it.

“I can. It’s you, it’s-“ Lambert stands up and reaches out, but stops shortly before he can touch Coën’s arm. “ _Is it_ you?”

“We’re not something evil pretending to wear our faces, if that’s what you mean,” Aiden says. “Though I guess that’s what something evil would say. Anyway. We’re us. _Dead_ us, but us, yeah.”

Lambert lunges forward then, trying to touch them – only to almost fall face-first into the dirt when there is no resistance, just air. A low, wounded sound escapes his throat. It breaks Aiden’s heart. He wants so badly to touch him, but it looks like for now, the wonders of sight and sound are the only ones they are being granted.

“I’m sorry.” Coën reaches out as well.

“I haven’t seen you in so long.” Lambert swallows, looks back and forth between, as if he doesn’t know where to direct his gaze. “I’m. I miss you so much. So _much_. Both of you.” He looks incredibly forlorn, hands outstretched in their direction and yet without the comfort of their touch.

“Lambert? Who are you talking to?” Geralt sounds sleepy, but of course the voices have roused him. He is on his feet within seconds when he sees the two Witchers standing in the light of the lantern.

“ _Coën_? Aiden?” His voice is incredulous.

“Hey, Geralt.” Coën gives an awkward little wave in Geralt’s direction that Aiden finds incredibly endearing. He waves as well, utterly enjoying the expression of surprise in Geralt’s face. It isn’t often that you can see him dumbstruck like this, and he is definitely going to cherish this particular memory.

“What on earth-“

“We’ve been here for a while,” Coën explains. He throws an apologetic glance at Lambert. “Ever since we died. Seems like Lambert can’t quite get rid of us yet.” A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob rises up in Lambert’s chest.

“So I _wasn’t_ imagining it. A few months ago, in the mage’s place.”

Aiden shakes his head.

“You weren’t. We were there.”

“You’ve been there all the time?” Lambert repeats. “Every day? You saw…everything?”

“Everything since the day I died,” Coën confirms gently. “All of it.”

“Ah.” Lambert seems to deflate a little. He sits back down on the tree trunk, more falling than moving with a purpose, as if his limbs have suddenly become too heavy to hold him up. “And you couldn’t-“

“I tried everything I could think of to contact you,” Coën sounds immeasurably sad. “But it never worked. I’m so sorry.”

Lambert buries his face in his hands for a moment, but he looks up quickly again as if Aiden and Coën might have vanished in those short moments when his eyes were averted.

“I can’t believe you are here,” he whispers. “There’s so much I’ve been meaning to tell you, so many things- “

“We have time.” Geralt sits down next to Lambert. “You can keep the lamp once we are done with this, Lambert. I don’t mind.”

“I- Thank you, Geralt.” Lambert takes a deep breath. “I don’t even know where to start. Fuck. Do you know what’s going on here? With the ghosts, I mean?”

“No more than you.” Coën sits down, carefully staying within the lamp’s cone of light. After a short moment of hesitation, Aiden joins him and leans against him, intertwining their fingers. Lambert’s eyes light up in the gesture, and there is just the hint of a smile on his face. “We haven’t seen anything else, either.”

“Too bad.” Lambert sighs. “I wonder what’s been calling the spirits. Let us know if you see anything strange?”

“Of course.” Aiden nods. They fall back into conversation so easily, as if he was never gone and he catches himself wishing that this night would never end, that he could keep clinging to the tenderness in Lambert’s gaze every time he looks at them, the softness in the curve of his mouth, the way his whole body slowly seems to relax and unwind after having been tense for months. It feels right, this moment – he and Coën and Lambert together, talking with Lambert’s family, trying to solve the mysteries of a contract they are on. With a fierce ache, he wishes he could have met Lambert and Coën when the latter was still alive. What a trio they would have made.

*

Of course, they should have known that it wouldn’t last.

The alderman points Geralt and Lambert towards a nearby cave where he’s seen the sign that was carved into the ghosts’ chests before. Upon examining the cave, it quickly becomes apparent that this is the work of a curse – perhaps the work of a disgruntled villager, or perhps that of an experimenting sorcerer, judging from the finesse this curse must have required.

Either way, the spellwork is huge and complex, filling almost the entire floor of the underground cavern. There are hundreds of ghosts surrounding it and more than a few wraiths. Neither Lambert nor Geralt seem to be particularly keen to step into the pit and onto the sigil containing spellwork – watching it from afar is enough to confirm their fears. Besides, it seems that the lamp is drawing the spectres, as if they know of its magical properties. Can feel it, probably, although Aiden can’t really say that he feels any different when he’s in its light, except perhaps for a slight tingling in his extremities.

“How do we destroy it?” Lambert asks the all-important question.

They are back at the camp that Lambert and Geralt have made. The sun is still high in the sky and although he can’t feel it like he used to, the warmth of its rays is still nice on Aiden’s back.

“We could ask a sorcerer or mage for help. But it might take months to find one, and even then, it’s not guaranteed they might help, especially if there’s nothing for them in it,” Geralt suggests.

“No.” Lambert shakes his head and shudders a little, pressing one hand to his chest. “No mages.”

“We can’t fight this many ghosts and wraiths. Even with the two of us, even if we had an Yrden as strong as Eskel’s, they would overwhelm us eventually.” Geralt shakes his head, eyes full of concern.

“You’ll have to destroy the sigil somehow,” Coën throws in. “It draws Chaos from the earth, and it seems like its power doesn’t only create, but also helps to sustain the spirits. If the sigil is destroyed, they will weaken or outright die, many of them probably fading away naturally.”

“But how do you destroy something this big?” Geralt frowns. “Even with no ghosts or wraiths around, it would take hours, if not days, to go at it with a pickaxe. And none of us are strong enough in magic to use its own Chaos against it or untangle the spellwork.”

“An explosion,” Aiden throws in. He sees Lambert’s eyes light up at the word and smiles. “Bring down the entire cave on top of the sigil. Trap as many ghosts with it as you can find. Problem solved, right?”

“This is why I fell in love with you,” Lambert sighs. “You’re the only one who really appreciates the glory of a few well-placed bombs.”

“Hey,” Coën says. “I’m right here.”

“I know, I know.” Lambert waves his hand. “But you were never quite as…enthusiastic about it as Aiden. Not that it’s a competition. Uh.” He suddenly looks incredibly awkward and Aiden laughs. Lambert seems twenty years younger with such an expression caught on his face.

“Back to the matter at hand…” Geralt rebukes them gently, but even he is smiling. “Do you think you could do it, Lambert? Bring down the entire cave?”

“I’d need a few more supplies but sure, yeah. Question is, how are we going to trap the spirits there? And not get mauled ourselves when we plant the charges? We could simply toss a few bombs from the entrance, but I doubt it would be enough. Better to be thorough, make sure there’s nothing left.”

“Yeah.” Geralt nods. They both stare at each other. Aiden looks at Coën, notices his face fall, a split second before he comes to the same conclusion.

“The lamp,” Coën says, very quietly. “If you place the lamp in the middle of the sigil, it’ll draw the ghosts. Like a lure.”

“But-“ Lambert catches himself when he realises the consequences of Coën’s suggestion. “No. _No_. I’m not losing you again. Not when I just found you. No.”

“It’s the best way.” Coën looks away, then down at his hands. “The only way, really.”

“He’s right.” Aiden hates to admit it. “And I mean, we won’t be gone. We’re already dead. But we’ll still be with you. You just won’t see us anymore.”

“Not helping.” Lambert says. “Really, really not fucking helping, Aiden.” He gets up, waving at them to stay before disappearing into the woods. Aiden feels the pull of him getting further away, but Lambert stops before the distance grows too large. He is still out of sight, however. They can hear a short scream echoing through the trees of the forest. Then nothing but silence.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt’s gaze is laced with regret and sorrow when he looks at them. Coën still has his gaze averted, fingers picking at the seam of his pants. “Perhaps, if we take some time, we can find another way. I could ask Yen-“

“No.” Coën shakes his head. “There isn’t another way. Perhaps it’s Destiny, after all. He was never meant to see us in the first place; that he was able to is a gift I’d never hoped to receive.”

“Still pretty shitty.” Aiden scoots closer to Coën, searching for the physical contact he has always needed when upset. “Do you think he’ll do it?” He already knows the answer.

“Of course, he will.” Coën finally lifts his eyes to Aiden’s, and the grief and pride warring in them are so strong that it almost takes Aiden’s breath away. “He hides it well, but he is too soft not to. He won’t leave these villagers to their fate.”

He is right.

Lambert returns perhaps half an hour later, after he has finished venting his frustrations. There are the tracks of dried tears on his cheeks, but nobody comments on them.

“So, when are we going to do this?” he asks. His voice is rigid, almost business-like, his entire body barely holding itself together as if he is ready to burst and lose control at any moment.

“How long would it take you to make the extra explosives?” Geralt wants to know. Lambert shrugs.

“A few hours probably. Two, maybe three. I have most things already.”

“The lamp would be most effective at night,” Geralt muses. “I can go get the remaining supplies from the village today, provided they’re not too complicated to obtain. We could do it at midnight tonight.” His gaze dances back and forth between Lambert and the two dead Witchers, softening almost imperceptibly.

“Or we could do it the night after tomorrow. If you want more time.”

“No point in waiting.” Lambert shakes his head, clenches one hand into a fist. “It’d only make it worse.”

“Alright then. I’ll be back in the evening.” Geralt withdraws tactfully, saddles Roach and talks to her in a soft voice before he heads off towards the village, a list of Lambert’s requests in hand. They wait until he has vanished beyond the horizon before speaking again.

“So.” Aiden clears his throat. “That…didn’t last very long, did it.”

“You could say that, yeah. Fucking shit.” Lambert throws another branch into the campfire, with such power that flames burst high into the sky. He is angry and hurting, once again reminding Aiden of the man he was shortly after he had found out about his death.

“Perhaps there’ll be another way to communicate. It’s worked once. Who’s to say that it won’t work again?” Aiden tries to be encouraging. Lambert shrugs.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lambert.” Coën moves forwards until he is only inches away from Lambert, barely caught in the light of the lamp. He lifts his hands, lets them hover a hair’s breadth over Lambert’s knees. “You’ll have to let us go eventually. You let me go once, managed to find happiness again. You still have your brothers, your family. You’ve always been the strongest amongst us.”

“Ha.” Lambert gives a bitter smile. “Not hard to be strongest if I’m the only one left, is it.”

“True,” Coën admits. “But my points still stands. Even if we can’t talk, we’ll still be there. Will still be waiting. Just. Don’t be in a hurry to join us, alright?”

“And don’t deny yourself some fun, either,” Aiden interjects. “Would be a shame to let all those talents of yours go to waste.”

“Yeah, well.” Lambert snorts. “Sex is going to be really fucking strange, knowing that you two weirdos will be watching everything I do.”

“I heard that some people are into that,” Aiden points out, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Great. What am I supposed to tell them? ‘Sorry, I hope you don’t mind my two dead lovers watching us? Hope you’re into that sort of thing.’” Lambert barks out a quick laugh. “I can’t believe we’re actually having this discussion.”

“Weirder things have happened,” Aiden shrugs, although he is hard-pressed to name any at this point in time. “Besides…perhaps Coën and I will have some fun of our own. Who knows.”

This time, Lambert’s laugh is both genuine and delighted, although he quickly grows serious again.

“I am going to miss you,” he says, with aching softness. “I never stopped missing you, Co. Even when I was at my happiest with that stupid Cat of ours.”

“I know,” Coën tells him, just as softly over Aiden’s indignant squawk. “I never begrudged you your happiness, either. You’ll get through it, Lambert. And eventually, you’ll laugh again.”

“But not with you.” Lambert looks at them as if he wants to commit every single line of their faces to memory.

“Well. Depends on the perspective. We’ll probably be holding our bellies in the background just about bursting with mirth,” Aiden points out. Even he can’t help the sad little smile travelling over his face, however.

“Ha, ha.” Lambert tries hard not to look amused, although he does give a little chuckle. “I always thought we might settle down somewhere some day, you know. A little cabin, somewhere up in the mountains, away from people. Vesemir would come visit, from time to time. Geralt and Eskel, too. We’d do stupid fun things like learn how to shear sheep. I already know how to spin wool, anyway. I think it could’ve been…really nice.”

“Yeah, yeah it would’ve.” Aiden tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Now here’s a good idea though,” he continues. “Become the first Witcher to die peacefully in his bed.”

Lambert lets out a long breath, gaze travelling into the distance.

“Who knows,” he says. “Might just try and do it, just to prove everyone wrong who says that we can’t.”

*

Aiden grasps Coën’s hand when the explosion roars out and brings down the entire cave, just as planned. Coën draws him into an embrace when the rocks begin to come down, presses a soft kiss to his forehead. Next to them, Lambert is balling his hands into fists, staring at the dust billowing out of the cave’s entrance until Geralt’s shoulder jostles him and wakes him from his stupor.

“Come on,” Geralt says, already leaving. “Let’s get back to the camp.”

Lambert nods. He looks around, as if, per chance, he could see them again if he just tries hard enough.

“Miss you already,” he mutters, very quietly. “But I guess there’s still work to do. I’ll be a while. Don’t you dare leave without me.”

Coën smiles as Aiden squeezes his hand.

“We won’t, you dolt. Of course, we won’t. We’ll be waiting.”

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, Lambert lives a long and full life - and when he finally dies, Coën and Aiden are right there, waiting for him. They take his hands and walk into the grey fog together.


End file.
